You probably have a medical condition. It’s just a matter of wording.
Finally, I can rest easy knowing there’s a name for my condition.
Could I get a card for this? Something I could carry around and show at restaurants and on airplanes?
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but my doctor says I need Indian vegetarian and I can’t have the baked chicken parmesan.”
— Me On A Plane
I’ve tried to explain my condition over the years but they don’t take me seriously. It’s not just a fad or a phase, it’s not just, “Oh sure, that sounds good.” It’s part of my DNA, it flows in my bloodstream, and I’m pretty sure that in a previous life I was a Henna-tattooed woman in flowing robes who made fluffy naan for the locals somewhere in a medium-sized Indian town.
There’s just stuff I know, answers to the questions of the universe, and how I feel when I sink my teeth into that doughy cloud of delight.
It’s just the way it is and I’m glad I can finally now have a card that I can show, a checkbox to show who I am and my place in the world.
It’s right there in front of the simmering hot vegetarian korma.
